


Ablution

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, oh Terezi you so silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terezi ODs on Casa Strider colors and Dave gets his gentleman on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ablution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme.

Standing before Dave's Stiller-shaded eyes is ninety-odd pounds of elbows and teeth, positively fucking slathered with and/or dipped in every colorful substance in his goddamn apartment that wasn't Gorilla Glued to the floors or walls, not excluding sprinkles, hair gel, orange chicken sauce, Blu-tack, half a bottle of grenadine syrup, the contents of three colored sharpies she'd cracked open like a hitman snapping finger bones, spoiled gravy, sickly grape cough syrup, and what might have been battery acid. 

And then she had found the hot sauce. 

Dave watches as she inhales and almost keels over from sheer pleasure.

"Pyrope, you look like you got shat on by little winged Crayola angels."

She cackles and stucks out her tongue. He'd pay to know how she does that without shredding it to ribbons.   
"Coolkid, this Crayola defecation is the best I've ever smelled!" 

"It's like Malfunkshun and Technicolor Inc. had a lovechild and then flung candy corn at it."

She twirls. It's vaguely like looking though an epileptic kaleidoscope. 

That'd been through a blender. 

Twice. 

He reaches out to grab one clean horn tip and hauls his freak tubward. 

"Daaaaaave, you are most certainly not living up to coolkid standards." Terezi whips up her own personal bitchfest all the way across the apartment. Someone less composed than Dave Strider likely would've grimaced upon pushing open the door: even the barren bachelor bathroom's a mess after she's blown through, doing her weird shampoo vampire thing. She keeps cackleprotesting up until he yanks the faucet open and pushes it over to hot. 

She hesitates in the doorway, sharp Alternian facial planes suddenly apprehensive under the respective splatters of cinnamon toothpaste and half a can of alfredo sauce. "Dave... an upright enforcer of the law should not be seen without her judicial apparel."

"You're telling me your Judge Judy ancestor thing walked around wearing her condiment shelf? Besides, don't fucking tell me Alternia's not covered with naked trolls romping in hot pink meadows or whatever the hell you have, showing off the moons of their bare gray asses. You may just break my heart."

She sighs and lets him peel off her shirt and drop it less like it's hot and more like it's got three kinds of rabies. Her nipples are a soft black against the slate troll skin (well, one is, the other's got Dijon on it), and her ribs are trying their darnedest to stab out of her torso and rattle away of their own volition. Dave's eyes, of course, remain stoically averted as he checks the water temperature. Terezi perches herself half-naked on the counter. Young trolls  were never really what you could call fashion-oriented: clothing was worn when it was useful, and their race wasn't exactly about to gasp at the scandal of some nekkid youngsters. Red daggerglasses complete with sticky film of root beer follow Dave as he flicks water off his fingers and turns to face the girl. 

They fill a lot of their time with banter, banter and cackling, but they don't seem to need to speak for this. She hops down and lets him slide too-large jeans down her narrow legs, pushing black panties down herself, and yelps when he smoothly grabs her bridal-style and plops her smoke-dark body into the water. Stupid coolkid gets to flashstep out of the way of a flicked spray of water for that trick. 

Glitter and Cheez Whiz waste no time in falling away from her body, and fuck, where do organs even fit with bone flush against skin like that? She looks like a monochromatic Frank Lloyd Wright window, except Dave doubts Frank Lloyd Wright originals spend all that much time getting raspberry vinaigrette scrubbed off of them. He holds up a loofah. 

"Never fear, alien rainbowgirl, the Knight will do his best to protect you from all Bath & Body Works instruments of torture." 

She snatches it from his hand. "I have no fear of your odd elongated bathing aids. It shall snap under the sheer force of my ablutionary prowess!"

The next eight minutes are spent alternately delighting in the rainbow swirling in the water and discovering that a loofah is, indeed, quite difficult to snap. 

She's bashful, only washing her arms and chest, for about as long as the water stays steamy. It doesn't take long for her to unfold like an aluminum easel (Dave's most accurate metaphor in possibly ever, he thinks, she looks like she attacked a rainbow of acrylics) and splash multihued water at his unresponsive shades and, failing those, pretty much the entire bathroom. 

Dave is gentle but not overly so, playing the ironic part of full-body manicurist in a perfectly gentlemanly fashion, as befitting a Knight of Time. The Round Tub of Camelot would be damn proud. 

Terezi lets him scrub down the leg that's hanging out of the tub as she licks marshmallow fluff off her left hand. They do this with every limb and then her back, Dave working rubber cement and Jello powder off her evening-smog skin as she draws on the tile with Irish Spring or smellfondles the stick of Old Spice. It takes a while, but he gets every particle of hot cocoa mix and every slick of WD-40 out of her hair. Finally, he stands and offers a hand, and, one sopping in her pewter birthday suit, one with sleeves that have retreated up past his elbows in fear, they look down at the lukewarm, mottled omnichromatic horror that calls itself the bathwater of Terezi Pyrope. 

The clean troll promptly has a towel flung at her. She makes the least frightening ghost in possibly ever, horns threatening to stab holes in the fabric and egret legs protruding like secondhand stilts. Before Dave can twitch a facial muscle, she's grabbed her glasses and is out the door and careening through the apartment. 

Dave takes stock of his surroundings. One previously clean bathroom, two eviscerated bottles of shampoo, a tub of water now settling into sludge, and a notorious absence of obnoxious naked troll chick. Said chick was probably looting the rest of the apartment for color. He makes a mental note to show her a black-and-white movie later. Revenge, hue-witch. 

He wipes his shades of droplets that aren't there and exits. 

"Why mister coolkid sir, I was never told you Striders kept such fashion around your hive!" 

He steels himself, turns around, and chokes. 

Pyrope is wearing an atrocity of white cotton, a horrid 1920's nightgown that had no place on anybody under the age of eighty-seven. Dave recognizes it as a nightie that'd been worn by an oversize Morgan Freeman puppet for as long as he could remember. The thing makes her revoltingly and misleadingly innocent, gathering around her shins and poofing at her angled shoulders. She twirls. He probably should have predicted this. He could think of worse outfits in the Strider dwelling. 

"Cooooookid, the court declares that your deliciousness is damp!" And indeed, Dave's jeans and shirt are wet from Terezi's frenetic splashing. He rolls his eyes and tries not to notice that she's following him into his room. 

Before he can reach the closet, a spindly hand shoves him aside and dives in. Most of his clothing is scarlet. Yeah, there's pretty much no way she's not gonna colorgasm in there. Cue squeals and rustling and hangers clattering to the ground. She steps out in one of his red shirts, clutching it up to her nose. It comes down to the tops of her thighs and shitshitshit, a maniacally grinning troll should not be anywhere near this sexy. 

"THIS ONE!" He's not sure if it's redder than any of his other identical red shirts. "Technical difficulties, Rez. You're still wearing it."

She pulls it off, tousling wet hair, and proffers it to him. "Not anymore!"

Dave Strider has a decision to make. There is a naked troll in front of him, all angles and wood-chipper teeth, holding out a wad of crimson cloth. He could take the shirt, change his clothes, toss the grannywear back at Pyrope, and they would go watch edited-for-TV horror films so they can fling popcorn at each other and she can shout-prosecute all the characters for imagined crimes. 

No.

Fuck that.

Her grin widens almost imperceptibly as he grabs the shirt, throwing it aside, and pulls her back into the closet. 

Two pairs of shades clatter to the floor aside a doughy mound of vintage sleepwear. 

A psychedelic whirl of color spirals down the drain and away.


End file.
